Chapter 7 - The Hidden Floorboard
“Put the gun down, Silas,” Brittany’s voice echoed through the foyer, surprisingly steady. The heavy double-barreled shotgun pressed tight against her shoulder. My grandmother had taught us both how to shoot clay pigeons when we were teenagers, a skill my mother had deemed ‘unladylike’ and my father had ignored.
Silas Vance froze, the cigar clamped between his teeth. He looked up at my sister, his dark eyes narrowing into slits. He didn’t lower his handgun, but the mocking smile vanished.
“Brittany,” Silas said, his gravelly voice dropping an octave. “You don’t want to do that. You’re David’s wife. You’re family. Put the antique down before you hurt yourself.”
“I’m not your family,” Brittany spat, her hands gripping the wooden stock so tightly her knuckles were white. “You used my children to blackmail my parents. You ruined my husband. You try to hurt my sister, and I swear to God, Silas, I will pull this trigger.”
Answer One, Open Two.
Answer: Brittany wasn't just a spoiled pawn; she was willing to risk her life to protect me and her children.
Open: The shotgun hadn't been fired in years. Was it even loaded? And how could I get to the piano before Silas’s men broke through the basement door?
A heavy THUD rattled the walls as the man I’d locked in the basement threw his weight against the heavy kitchen door. It wouldn't hold much longer.
I used the standoff. I moved silently backward, inching my way across the living room carpet toward the heavy, dark wood of my grandmother’s upright piano.
“You think you can protect her?” Silas laughed softly, a dry, rasping sound. He took one step toward the bottom of the staircase, keeping his gun aimed at me, but his eyes on Brittany. “Your father is a coward and a thief, Brittany. He killed a boy, and he let me pay him to keep quiet. Your whole family is built on a foundation of rot. Give me the deed, and I walk away.”
“I don’t have the deed,” I said.
I reached the piano. Under the music.
I dropped to my knees, feeling the heavy wooden floorboards beneath the pedals. My fingers scrabbled against the polished oak. There was a faint groove, barely visible, running alongside the left pedal block.
I pulled the heavy iron key from my pocket. I jammed the flattened, ornate edge of the key into the groove and pried upward with all my strength.
The floorboard popped loose with a sharp crack.
“What was that?” Silas snapped, whipping his gun toward me.
“Don’t move!” Brittany screamed, shifting the shotgun.
Silas hesitated, caught between the two of us.
I ripped the floorboard away. Beneath it was a shallow, dust-filled cavity. Inside rested a thick, fireproof metal lockbox. I grabbed it, my heart hammering against my ribs. There was a keyhole on the front.
I shoved the heavy iron key into the slot and turned. It clicked.
I threw the lid open.
Inside was the original, watermarked deed to the house. Unencumbered. Free and clear.
But that wasn't what made my breath catch. Resting on top of the deed was a bright blue folder. I opened it.
It was a Swissair plane ticket, First Class, from Boston to Geneva. The departure date was open.
And the name on the ticket was Brittany Williams.
Alongside it was a bank book for a Swiss account, showing a balance of two million dollars.
My mind reeled. My grandmother hadn't cut Brittany out of the will to punish her. She had secretly created an escape fund. She knew David and Silas were monsters. She knew Brittany would eventually need to run, and she hid the money where my parents couldn't steal it and Silas couldn't trace it.
Suddenly, the front door exploded inward with a secondary crash.
I looked up in terror, expecting more of Silas’s men.
But it wasn't a thug. It was my mother.
She looked deranged. Her hair was wild, her expensive coat torn, her face smeared with mascara and dirt. She stumbled into the foyer, holding a heavy, blood-stained tire iron in her right hand.
Silas spun around, stunned by the intrusion.
“Eleanor?” Silas demanded.
My mother didn't say a word. She let out a guttural, terrifying scream and swung the tire iron with every ounce of her strength, smashing it directly into Silas Vance’s kneecap.
Bone crunched loudly. Silas roared in agony, his leg collapsing under him. His handgun fired wildly into the ceiling, raining plaster down on the Persian rug.
“Mom!” Brittany screamed.
“Run!” my mother shrieked, swinging the tire iron again, hitting Silas in the shoulder as he scrambled on the floor. “Hannah, take the box and run!”
The kitchen door burst open. The tattooed man from the basement charged into the hallway, raising a crowbar.
Before I could move, a figure tackled the man from behind. It was my father. His hands were still zip-tied, but he threw his entire body weight into the thug’s knees, sending them both crashing into the hallway console table.
“Get the girls out!” my father yelled, blood pouring down his face as the thug began viciously punching him in the ribs.
I grabbed the metal lockbox, the deed, and the blue folder. I sprinted toward the stairs, grabbing Silas’s fallen handgun off the floor as I passed him.
I reached the landing. Brittany was shaking violently, lowering the shotgun.
“Come on!” I grabbed her arm.
We ran toward my bedroom, where the twins were locked in the bathroom. But as we reached the door, the glass of the master bedroom window shattered inward.
A massive figure climbed through the broken window, stepping off the porch roof.
It was David.
He had climbed the trellis outside. He stood in my bedroom, brushing glass off his tailored suit. His eyes locked onto Brittany.
“You really thought you could point a gun at my father and walk away?” David asked softly.
He lunged forward, moving with terrifying speed, and kicked the bathroom door open. The wood splintered.
Inside, the twins screamed.
David reached in and grabbed little Leo by the arm, yanking the crying child into the air.
“No!” Brittany shrieked, raising the shotgun again.
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But David held his own son up like a shield, pulling a knife from his belt and pressing it against the boy’s small throat.
“Drop the gun, Brittany,” David whispered. “Or I swear to God, I’ll make you watch.”
